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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29446095">I was born to press my head between your shoulder blades (at night when light is fading)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/bladeangel/pseuds/bladeangel'>bladeangel</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>John Wick (Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>'hey I want to talk about how awesome my wife and my best friend (who is my wife) is for 500 words', Baking, Christmas Tree, Christmas fic, Christmas fic as written by someone who has never done christmas, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Happy Ending, Helen wick is wonderful and we don't deserve her, John Wick Secret Santa, John is the original wife guy, M/M, and I was like 'yes sir right away Mr. Wick', excessive use of the term 'Christmas food', extremely minor angst and feels as a flavour enhancer, foodfights, he did not sign up for this but he's here anyway and we love him for that, legit my dude just kept interrupting my attempts to plot just like, poor Aurelio, their dorks your honour, this fic is 98 percent fluff by weight, tree decorating</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 18:09:05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,759</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29446095</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/bladeangel/pseuds/bladeangel</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>‘We could get a tree.’ She says, smiling in that lovingly cheeky way of hers, inviting him to join her on another adventure into the mundane.</p><p>The abc's of Helen and John's first foray into Christmas.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Daisy &amp; John Wick, Helen Wick/John Wick, John Wick &amp; Helen Wick, John Wick &amp; John Wick's Unnamed Dog</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>I was born to press my head between your shoulder blades (at night when light is fading)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trin303/gifts">Trin303</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is my incredibly long overdue piece for the John Wick Secret Santa 2020. My recipient was @overheardatthecontinental on tumblr who was incredibly kind and understanding when I asked for more time due to personal issues. </p><p>They requested John x Helen Wick, John and Daisy/Dog Content, Holiday stories, Let John Wick be Happy!, The John Wick gang (aurelio, marcus, sofia, etc) and soft! John Wick among others. Which I've done my best to include. </p><p>This is by far the longest fic I have ever published, there are definitely bits that are a bit wonky and I'll come back and edit them in time but I did an all night in the hopes of having this up for Valentines day (which it still is over here).</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>1 – Adventure</strong>
</p><p>Neither of them had ever really celebrated Christmas before. </p><p>For John, Christmas had been a day just like any other, filled with blood and death and work. Always the work, Always his duty to the Tarasov’s, to The Director, to the Ruska-Roma and the world under the table. While others attended crowded parties only held to show off their wealth and position, John had more often than not spent his Christmas day’s alone solidifying those very positions in blood and lead. </p><p>Helen tells him that it was never something that she celebrated, that she never bothered because it didn’t seem worth it in the past. </p><p>‘We could get a tree.’ She says, smiling in that lovingly cheeky way of hers, inviting him to join her on another adventure into the mundane.</p><p>‘Yeah’ He says, ever eloquent in the face of those soft eyes that only ever seemed to see him. </p><p>John. </p><p>Not the killer. Not the nightmare. </p><p>Just John. </p><p>Best friend. </p><p>Husband.</p><p>
  <strong>2 – Bright</strong>
</p><p>They get the tree from a little ethically sourced place Officer Jimmy recommends to them. It’s a modest thing. Just a little over five feet in height, with what seems like a decent amount of branches and greenery to its name. </p><p>The day before had been spent preparing the house to receive the tree, with Helen pouring over videos and articles online. Looking up how to best trim the branches and house it for as long as possible. She would angle her tablet just so, letting him have a quick look over her shoulder for the more practical parts, as they waited for the casserole to finish off in the oven. </p><p>When they have it housed, they take a quick break for lunch. Most of which is spent with Helen leaning over to show him pictures of different trees, with quick videos of people decorating them. John gets a feel for the average layout and starting point for tree decorating, what was considered fashionable, acceptably quirky. Starting off at the bottom with baubles, he decided, seemed like the most efficient approach to get the tree done in a manner that was both fast and in keeping with the videos that they had watched.</p><p>And yet, when Helen handed him some tinsel and started tossing her own armful haphazardly over their little piece of in-door greenery, gently throwing flecks at him as she went. John found it easy to let go of efficiency in favour of putting a handful of popcorn down the back of his wife’s shirt. Drawing out those beloved giggles, that often seemed to be his sole reason for living. Addicted as he was to the pure incandescent joy of this woman who never thought twice about putting herself in the arms of a killer, of gently pushing at his shoulders, jumping onto his back for rides or playfighting with him whenever the mood struck them. </p><p>The rest of the tree decoration followed the same vein, they spent as much time tossing things at each other as they did at the tree. Save for the fairy lights, which required a bit more care and planning for safety's sake if nothing else. With Helen’s help John placed the little string of lights just so, highlighting the beautiful chaos of their work: Clumping and disorganised and theirs.</p><p>They top the tree together, a little Labrador pup with angel wings, that Helen insisted they name before arranging it in pride of place. Gertrude. Of course. </p><p>They break again for dinner, leftovers this time, as most of their time went in preparing and decorating the tree. Over cold casserole they talk about what decorating they may want to do tomorrow, whether they felt like mistletoe or wreaths or stockings. </p><p>‘We’re making shit up as we go, Helen says, leaning boneless against his shoulder, ‘might as well choose what we actually like and feel comfortable with.’</p><p>They had decided to turn the lights on after dinner, bursting into gleeful guffaws at the sight of their haphazard tree decorating. The bare patch at the lower left end and overabundance of glitter near the top, where Gertrude presided over the entire sloppy affair. </p><p>Their laughter left them sat on the floor, where a still giggling Helen slumped into his side, tucking a smile into the safe place at the curve of his neck, before she raised her head to match his adoring gaze with one of her own.</p><p>And John, well John can’t help but think that while the lights on the tree were bright, they could never hope to match the light in Helen’s eyes.  </p><p>
  <strong>3 – Culinary</strong>
</p><p>John is the one who decides to bake. </p><p>It starts with a puzzled conversation about what exactly counts as ‘Christmas food’. </p><p>Between their inexperience with the whole matter and anecdotal examples that range from foie gras and fugu to kung pow chicken and strawberry jam on bagels, they have no idea what counts as ‘Christmas food’. Though they’ve absorbed enough by now to know trying any of the above would be nothing less than a culinary disaster, they still have no clue what ‘normal Christmas food’ would be.</p><p>So, as he often does when faced with a ‘normal’ problem, John asks Aurelio.</p><p>
  <strong>4 – Decisions</strong>
</p><p>It is, in retrospect, simultaneously both the best and worst decision John has made in recent memory. </p><p>The conversation starts of fairly simply, if not awkwardly, when John brings Helen’s car in for a change of battery. He had dropped his wife off to work that morning in his own car, driving exactly at the speed limit and holding Helen’s hand at every streetlight, before going back home to jump her battery and get it to the shop in time for her to have it back for the next day.</p><p>Aurelio, who has by now resigned himself to personally dealing with every minor nick and scratch for Helen Wick’s extremely sensible - and almost offensively civilian- car, still manages to stare at John in what was as close to surprise as his jaded soul can muster.</p><p>‘You want to know about ‘Christmas food’?’ </p><p>One would think that after all these years nothing John could say should be able to faze him anymore.</p><p>‘Helen and I, we’ve never done Christmas before, so we don’t know what’s the correct food to eat on Christmas.’</p><p>One would be wrong.</p><p>‘Well, that’s up to you guys isn’t it?’ Aurelio says, already regretting every decision that has led him to this moment, ‘If you’re celebrating for the very first time, then you guys should decide on what you want to be your Christmas food from now on.’</p><p>‘What’s the criteria? What makes traditional Christmas foods, traditional?’ Says John, standing still and near silent next to him, the perfect picture of the patient and methodical nightmare that the underworld fears, asking about fucking ‘Christmas food’ where the fuck did that phrase even come from? (Helen, it came from Helen.)</p><p>‘Well,’ Says Aurelio thinking it over ‘I guess it kind of depends on different things, what a person’s family made when they were young, what sorta food they like eating, hell even where they live or where they came from’.</p><p>John hums in thought.</p><p>‘Like,‘ he continues, ‘you were with the Ruska-Roma right? And you said you’ve never done Christmas – but I bet there’s probably some weird Russian food that you’re supposed to eat on Christmas or something - like Borscht.’</p><p>‘Borscht?’ John states more than asks.</p><p>Aurelio, who has by this point given up on keeping his wandering mind from joining his busy hands, simply nods.</p><p>‘Yeah. ‘lotta cultures have some weird-ass traditions man. I ever tell you ‘bout that assassin I was seeing, Henry? Went to Christmas with him once, ‘parently spotted dick’s an English holiday staple.’</p><p>‘The most important thing though, is to decide what you want to have and what kind of meaning you want to give it.’ He veers, no longer watching his trains of thought as closely as he usually does, too caught up studying the signs of what could become a potential oil leak in the future. ’You’re deciding on your own traditions for the rest of your Christmas’s so you should focus on what’s important to you instead of what everybody else does.’</p><p>Wonder of wonders, in the wake of that absolute verbal paragraph John actually turns to look at him, probably so Aurelio can see the pleased little look on his stupid face when he lets out a quiet ‘spotted dick?’.</p><p>‘Yeah, yeah.’ Aurelio gripes, ‘laugh it up asshole, it’s like this brown cake thing with raisins in it -though Henry’s mom’s recipe tasted like it was about three fourths bourbon by volume- you have it with this lumpy as fuck box custard’.</p><p>‘If your dick’s got raisins and yellow lumps, you probably need the bourbon’ John says, because what the rest of the underworld didn’t understand when it came to their resident boogieman was that he was actually an immature thirteen-year-old at heart.</p><p>‘You goddamn asshole!’ helpless laughter bursting through the thin veneer of seriousness he’s managed to cling to so far, Aurelio catches himself before he can punch John on the arm, but the sentiment gets across well enough judging by that shit eating grin.</p><p>Why did he put up with this asshole again?</p><p>‘Decide what’s important to me, huh?’ John says, mostly to himself, in the wake of their laughter. His tone two parts wonder and one part the discomfort his newfound independence and this calm new civilian life of his, causes him. His face soft and filled with a kind of quiet awe that no-one would ever expect of the underworld’s most cold and merciless killing machine.</p><p>Oh yeah, this is why.</p><p>
  <strong>5 - Experiment</strong>
</p><p>Step one of John’s approach to their Christmas food problem was easy enough. Aurelio had stressed the importance of deciding based on personal choices but having criteria and a plan of attack, John has found, is always helpful. </p><p>John’s sleeping habits meant that he always had a few hours in the wake of going to sleep and inevitably waking up, and when Helen needed to get up for work, that he could research traditional sweets and desserts from places that seem like good choices. </p><p>Step two, on the other hand, was where unexpected variables came into play.</p><p>While John wasn’t exactly what most consider bad in the kitchen – at least compared to Helen, whose ability to burn even water bordered on legendary- he certainly doesn’t have the skills to manage even half of the recipes he’s shortlisted. </p><p>This is how Helen finds him on the last Friday evening before Christmas. Standing stock still in their airy kitchen, surrounded by meticulous recipe notes and baking ingredients, calloused hands streaked with the artificial brightness of cherry preserves, his white shirt stained hopelessly with the vaguely syrupy pinkness of the excess liquid in the jar.</p><p>The whole situation reminds him of another time, in another place, when Helen found John in a similar situation and extended a hand in support. </p><p>Here and now, John’s wife laughs at him in that boisterous way of hers, teasing him for being messy even as she puts her work bag in its place and rolls her sleeves up to clear everything up, sending him off to shower once they have the bulk of it done.</p><p>When he comes back, Helen is dressed in the loose and comfortable clothes they both tend to favour while at home, leaning over to read a few of the recipes he had copied down, taking care to avoid touching them, as always making sure to respect his things and his space. It’s a novel concept when John thinks about it, when compared to his days under the table, in this strange new life he’s building with his best friend, not only is his own personal space respected but that of his things too. </p><p>When he walks-in Helen turns to look at him, smiling that small unconscious smile that she always wears around him, as if all of the love in her heart couldn’t help spilling out from her lips, as if she was actually truly happy to see him.</p><p>‘Have you got an idea for Christmas food then?’ Helen asks, her hair falling over one shoulder, there’s a hole in her left sock and the hem of her shirt is frayed past any hope of rescue.  </p><p>Not for the first time, John thinks that he has never seen something as beautiful as awe-inspiring as Helen.</p><p>‘Yeah.’ He answers, tongue thick with all the things that he wishes he could bring himself to say, not now though, those words only ever seemed to break free at night, with Helen’s arms around him and her warm weight at his back. </p><p>‘Aurelio suggested choosing a tradition that’s important to us. Like a special dessert, that has some sort of meaning.’’ He says instead ‘Your more than sweet enough anyway, but I thought-‘ he trails off, unsure how to complete the thought in way that even approaches normal, let alone casual. </p><p>‘So, we experiment with a bunch of possible recipes and find one we want to make every year for Christmas food?’ Helen asks, once it becomes obvious that he won’t be finishing that train of thought.</p><p>‘That sounds like a lot of fun! So, what’s got you stuck?’ She asks, honest, helpful, and straightforward as always when it comes to the things John couldn't always put to words.</p><p>‘I can’t bake half of these.’ He gestures vaguely at the kitchen, at his meticulous notes and the mess of ingredients covering nearly every countertop, the helplessness of being considered one of the most capable people in the world and being unable to even fucking bake. It's more than that of course, it always is, but for now this is all he can articulate.</p><p>Helen hums in sympathy, her face one of compassion if not complete understanding. ‘would picking one of each type to bake help?’</p><p>‘What if it's not right?’</p><p>‘Well, this’s an adventure, right? Can’t have an adventure without making a couple of mistakes on the way.’ </p><p>‘What if we pick the wrong one?’</p><p>‘We don’t need to bake the same things next year. We can keep experimenting every year we decide to celebrate, until we find the right ones for us.’</p><p>Helen must see something on his face, because she closes the distance between them in a few steps and takes him into her arms, giving him the firm hug he didn’t realise he needed. </p><p>‘It’ll be ok John.’ She says, ‘Even if we mess it up, we’ll keep trying until we get it right.’</p><p>‘Yeah.’ John agrees, reassured as much by her touch and her words as her faith in them, as long he has Helen beside him John knows that things will be ok.</p><hr/><p>And so this is how John and Helen spend the rest of their weekend. With John baking a mixture of beginner and intermediate cookies, cakes and sweets, while Helen, with her tendency to boil flour and bake water if left unsupervised, licks batter off of mixing spoons and tests the flavour of every singed or undercooked offering with the steady guidance of Wikipedia articles and cooking videos. Occasionally stepping into to lend a hand when things get a bit too complicated for a single cook, or when she or John felt they had gone to long without a food fight.</p><p>They settle on slightly over-sweet honey-soaked baklava and soggy yet spicey-fruity priyaniki as the starting point of their own little ‘Christmas food’ based tradition. Alongside, Helen announces, in a false imperial voice, ‘Baking shit and eating cookie dough days.’</p><p>And even though John knows that they wouldn’t be keeping to these sweets for next year, that even though they had decided on what to have this year they still don’t know what their Christmas food is. In the wake of their week of their little experiments John finds that he’s not as concerned about figuring out a special Christmas food as he had been.  They had already decided on the most important part of their new traditions, and it is, in John’s opinion, the most meaningful part of their Christmas celebrations anyway.</p><p>They never do decide on a specific Christmas dessert. Even years later. They had too much fun experimenting and eating cookie dough to ever stop trying new recipes.</p><p>
  <strong>6 - Friends</strong>
</p><p>The decision to invite their friends over is a spontaneous one. They already have too many sweets at home, and even if the both of them eat their Christmas dessert every day, its still too much for just two people to finish off. </p><p>John is the one who suggests giving some away to their friends, he’s sure Aurelio and Officer Jimmy, at least would appreciate them.</p><p>It’s Helen who brings up the possibility of having them over.</p><p>Truthfully neither of them realise that they're planning a party until they're both already in the thick of it. They set up the time and let everyone know what to expect- a lot of Baklava and Priyaniki- and what not to expect -anything approaching a normal Christmas party or party food. As well as what to bring – themselves and any plus ones- and what not to bother with – gifts or dessert-.</p><p>It is a surprisingly pleasant experience, John finds, having friends over for a get-together of sorts, nothing like the garish parties he’d been adjacent to in the past. Sofia declines because of the travel time but Marcus, Jimmy, Aurelio and Addy come. They leave the tree standing, decorated as it is and place a few simple Christmas decorations around. But for the most part its just Helen and John and some of their friends, sitting around in their living room, drinking too bitter homemade hot chocolate, eating poorly baked desserts, and just catching up with each other. </p><p>Though most of the conversation eventually devolves into anecdotes about the many stupid things he’s done over the years, John himself isn’t overly concerned by being the subject of the conversation, its taken him some time to come to terms with, but there’s very little for John to worry about, at least right now, here among friends in his own home, the space he has built alongside his best friend.</p><p>It's Christmas eve, and tonight John is not alone.</p><p>
  <strong>7 - Gifts</strong>
</p><p>They had asked everyone to not bring them any gifts. Not that any of them, stubborn personalities that they are, listen. So their modest tree gradually starts housing a modest collection of gifts under its branches, most of which are, thankfully, small.</p><p>They open the gifts at Marcus’s urging – most of which were addressed to the both of them – between Marcus and Aurelio citing Christmas rules.  For the most part the gifts are somewhat impersonal or awkward, Jimmy gets them a gift card to a local art shop, Aurelio promises them some extra care for their cars, Addy gets them a couple of books around cocktail making and Marcus gives them a joint bookbinding/visual arts set. </p><p>Even as they open the gifts John keeps a quiet eye on the clock. It’s just barely past the hour when the doorbell rings, and Helen, with a quick glance at John to note his lack of tension, gets up to answer. No doubt keenly aware that any potential assailant at their door will be promptly met with the full fury of several highly trained killers.</p><p>John strains to hear Helen’s voice over the mummer of conversation around him, anticipating some sort of reaction.</p><p>From the direction of the door comes a short sound of surprise quickly followed by the unmistakable noise of a delighted Helen. The others look up from their conversations when his wife makes her way back,, giving her the courtesy of acting as if they hadn’t been listening out for any sounds of distress – even Aurelio has a spare tire iron in his car tonight, in the event of party crashers-. </p><p>Helen enters the room carrying a incredibly affectionate bulldog in her arms like a toddler, in her other hand a small bag of supplies. Her face set in an expression of pure unadulterated  delight, a look that remains trained on John even as Helen bends down to let the excitable pile of fur down, the dog immediately sets to exploring its new surroundings, stopping by each of their guests to sniff them before it returns to its survey. Helen is near speechless when she hugs him, a small litany of ‘Oh My Gosh’, ‘Thank you!’ and ‘Its so cute!’s all she can manage before another chime from the door draws their attention.</p><p>This time Helen pushes at his shoulder before Jimmy can get up to answer it, sending him on his way even as she turns to draw the others into a conversation around his bookbinding commissions. </p><p>At the door John meets a young woman holding a leash and a bag. She hands him the leash with a cheery ‘happy holidays’. Attached to the leash is a small dog with a soulful look to its bright eyes, It trots over to him on its short little legs, reaching up to sniff at his lax hand even as John accepts a sheaf of papers and a small pack of supplies from the young woman, who also hands him a card marked with Helen’s neat script before saying a quick goodbye.</p><p>The dog’s name is Daisy, of course, John reads on his way back to where the others are seated, the card tells him she’s supposed to keep him company, a quick look at Daisy’s training qualifications tells him a bit more than those gently written words imply. </p><p>When John reaches the living room the others are getting ready to leave, wanting to give the two of them the chance to discuss things in private while also helping themselves to the dessert packets Helen had already prepared for them.</p><p>Soon enough John and Helen are left alone, with just themselves and their new dogs to give them company. They they start picking up after their guests, collecting trash and putting aside the odd lock pick for the next time one of their friends come to visit. They talk gently between themselves, about the day, their friends, their dogs. about doing it all again next year.</p><p>
  <strong>8 - Happy</strong>
</p><p>John goes to sleep in Helen’s arms. Just like every night before and, no doubt, every night after. He is warm and, for once, if he dreams, John doesn’t remember.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Notes: spotted dick is a British dessert (non alcoholic) though it isn't a Christmas thing specifically. <br/>The title for this fic comes from 'Fair' by The Amazing Devil which is a super romantic song.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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